


Like Candy From A Baby

by scoradh



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoradh/pseuds/scoradh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron seduces Harry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Candy From A Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: terkey (livejournal).  
> Written for slashfest in July 2006.

Ron would be the first to admit that he could be a trifle rash at times. The reason he'd be first was that everyone else would be queuing up to call him a 'mindless copy-cat risk-taker with the same knack for survival as a three-legged gazelle in lion country.'  
  
Ron often spoke without thinking first, saving the cognition for those precious early-morning seconds when he woke from a bad dream and started to remember every foolish act he'd committed in twenty-four years of life. These started off with the time when he was three, and had trustingly admitted to his twin brothers that a rubber duck called Woffy was his most prized possession. The subsequent bonfire had ruined Mrs Weasley's prized hydrangea bed for the next five years.   
  
Of late, his once-ubiquitous impulsive outbursts had been confined to his sparse interactions with family and school friends. Since he'd come out five years before, nearly all his contact with them had been fraught with tension. Acceptance was not nearly so difficult to achieve as a return to the easy camaraderie of former times.   
  
All this contrasted poorly with the life he lead as a gay man and at which he'd been more successful than at anything else in his life. The culture shock of moving from the gay arena, where he unquestionably commanded respect, to the family arena, in which his role was that of a rather strange little brother, only grew stronger as time went on.  
  
He had reason to reflect on this sorry state of affairs at Charlie's stag night. Fred and George had taken it upon themselves to organise the event, which was not so much a party as a cross between a product-placement test for Weasley's Wizard Wheezes and a full-scale Communist riot. Charlie was barely visible beneath breast-shaped balloons, strippers with balloon-shaped breasts and bottles of every alcoholic substance known to man, and quite a few that shouldn't have been.   
  
Ron perched on a bar stool, feeling uncomfortably homosexual in a such a blatantly vagina-celebrating environment. The mesh vest and skin-tight white jeans, which had earned him so much adulation in the bars of Canal Street, netted nothing more than a few sniggers in the Leaky Cauldron's banqueting room.   
  
Ron inched his way around the leather stool. As sexy and as successful a tool in pulling as his jeans might be, they trussed him up more securely than anything touted in the BDSM Fan's Guide. They were made for a quick bout of dancing followed by a long time on the floor, as Ron enjoyed the benefits of their effects on the current object of his affections. An hour of sitting still and watching the antics of his brothers had made Ron extremely grateful for the fact that he wasn't planning on having children anyway.  
  
At long last, the barman deigned to take notice of Ron's fixed gaze and gesticulating fingers. He approached with bad grace and a scowl that brought to mind the aftermath of a scale ten earthquake. Ron would have taken it as prejudice if he hadn't watched the man use the same social skills on a group of strippers, two of the beautiful witches who constituted the twins' party decoration and Morgan Dubarry, the Minister for Magical Games and Sports (who was a close friend of Charlie's).   
  
"Whatcho want?" grunted the charming provider of scandalously over-priced beverages.  
  
"Can I have a Cosmopolitan, please?"   
  
"A what now?" The barman eyed Ron suspiciously, as if he'd asked for John the Baptist's head on a silver plate.   
  
"A Cosmopolitan? You know, the cocktail?"   
  
The barman snorted, a pleasant sound that suggested that his copious phlegm had started up its own amateur orchestra. "We don't do that here."  
  
"Well, what do you have?" asked Ron, in mounting desperation.  
  
"We got Butterbeer, Firewhiskey, Winkle's Old Peculiar, ale, and whatever foreign stuff the stag party brought wiv 'em."  
  
"That’s _it_?"  
  
"No. There's vodka too. Be forgetting my own head next!"  
  
"Fine." Ron was resigned to his fate. "Give me a shot of Firewhiskey, then." After all, he'd liked it when he was fifteen.  
  
"Right you are, guv'nor." The barman ambled away, and Ron settled down for a twenty-minute wait.  
  
Resting his bare arm on the sticky bar-top, Ron sadly considered what he should be doing with a summer Saturday night. His job as an assistant editor on the _Quibbler_ \-- gained through Luna's continuing and inexplicable interest in him rather than any editorial proficiency -- ran Monday through Friday. His weekends were free for debauchery, casual assignations and hours and hours of dancing with other beautiful young gay men who could be called Ron's friends, up until they turned into his lovers.   
  
By comparison, the stag-night simply couldn't compare. For one thing, the women here were actually displaying interest in him. Ron was far from a screaming queen, but he'd assumed that his carefully tousled hair, tight trousers, swinging walk and the touch of eyeliner would have given them a clue as to his sexual orientation. After all, he'd dressed up as he would for a night out in Manchester to announce it loud and clear. That, and he'd wanted to show his brothers that he didn't give a tup'penny damn about their discreet disapproval.  
  
On the other end of the spectrum, there didn't seem to be one bit of totty in the entire room. All the gorgeous men were shacked up with equally gorgeous women. Although Ron acknowledged that such a state of affairs was necessary for the continuation of the species, he couldn't help but lament it in his individual case.   
  
Not that he could make a move even if someone did catch his eye, he reflected grumpily. One of his brothers would be sure to kick up a stink or, at the very least, report him to his mother. Percy in particular was keeping Ron constantly in his eye line, even when it necessitated swivelling his back to his drinking buddies.   
  
Charlie probably wouldn't have noticed if Ron buggered someone on the bar, given that he was nose-deep in pay-by-the-hour flesh and looking like he couldn't have told you the name of his future wife. Bill was in pretty much the same state, which was understandable given that he'd been married for seven years.   
  
Nothing ever escaped the twins, however; and they'd find a way to turn Ron's libido to their advantage. It would be a long time before Ron forgot the rash he'd developed from testing out their fruit-flavoured lube, all because they'd discovered him _in flagrante delicto_ with a waiter called Josh (whose considerable talents did not encompass serving food).  
  
From the corner of his eye, Ron could see Dean and Seamus frantically chatting up two _Witch Weekly_ models. Despite the moral wasteland that was his own life, Ron couldn't help but feel dismayed at their behaviour. Both of them had girlfriends -- Dean's was stunning and Seamus', long-suffering. Ron supposed his attitude might be tempered by the fact that they adored Ron and insisted that he come lingerie-shopping with them.   
  
Ron was just scanning the room for Harry when he popped up beside Ron, his sweaty hair flopping in his eyes. As per usual, Harry looked an absolute mess. His paisley shirt was made from the sort of material that graced the sitting rooms of little old ladies with cataracts. The crotch of his jeans flopped somewhere around his knees. The scruffy loafers on his feet sported _tassels_.   
  
Ron, whose reputation for clothes-related bitching was second-to-none in Manchester, regarded his best friend fondly. When Harry eventually married, Ron planned to have a word in his wife's ear about dressing him. Until then, Ron put up with his horrifically kitsch fashion sense because, well, he was _Harry_.  
  
"Are you having fun?" shouted Harry.  
  
"Oh, heaps," said Ron, in a normal voice. "They don't make my favourite cocktails nor, indeed, _any_ cocktails at this bar and I'm the only gay man in the vicinity, but aside from that, I'm having a ball!"  
  
Harry grinned. He was the sole person whose attitude had not changed one whit as Ron became, to quote Fred, 'gayer with every passing fashion collection.' Even Hermione, with her everlasting equal-rights crusade, had taken to asking after Ron's 'gay lovers' every time they met and sending him helpful pamphlets on the inherent dangers of anal sex. Ron could forgive her for that, because she'd figured it out before Ron and it very nearly broke her heart.   
  
Ron was prouder of Hermione now than when she'd been his short-lived girlfriend. She was respected (or feared) at all Ministry levels and was carrying out a very sedate but advantageous courtship with Anthony Goldstein, who was Third Under-Secretary to the Minister for Magic.  
  
"How about you?" asked Ron. "Up for a quick fling with a stripper?"  
  
Harry made a face. He'd obviously fallen asleep in the sun again, for there was a peeling pink strip across the bridge of his nose. Underneath the rosy skin, a handful of freckles were visible.   
  
"Nah, I don't think so," he said, his voice too carefully casual. "Um, they're a bit …"  
  
"Plastic?" Ron supplied helpfully. "Skimpily dressed? Vacant? Expensive?"  
  
"Well, the first three anyway."  
  
"But not all of these women are strippers." Ron surveyed the room with a jaundiced eye. "Not professionally, anyway."  
  
Harry spluttered.   
  
"Oh, don't get all indignant on me." Ron grinned. He enjoyed getting a rise out of Harry, because he never took anything Ron said seriously any more. He'd learned not to. "Given the right-sized wallet, you'd spread the legs of any woman in this room."  
  
"I don't care," said Harry robustly. "I don't fancy any of them."  
  
"Not even the pretty brunette who keeps smiling over at us?" Ron leaned past Harry's shoulder, feeling an ominous creak from his crotch. A slender girl with eyelashes straight from Bambi's make-up artist was indeed making eyes at Harry, who as usual was far too dense to notice.   
  
Harry looked in the same direction, caught Bambi's eyes and flushed deeply. "That's Romilda Vane, remember? We went out before."  
  
"Oh dear me, yes." Ron bared his teeth at the girl, who dropped her expression of doe-like innocence for one that more closely resembled a pre-menstrual Medusa. "The bunny-boiler. She's lost weight. No harm."  
  
"How many times do I have to tell you? You can't judge everyone to your insane standard of perfection." Harry sounded typically exasperated.  
  
"Why not? It gives people something to aim for." Ron brushed idly at the front of his mesh vest. It shimmered under the strobe lights. That, and the way it'd made Percy's eyes pop when he saw it, made it worth all two hundred Galleons. "Besides, quite a lot of people meet it. Temporarily, anyway."  
  
"I do pity your boyfriends," sighed Harry, and Ron smirked.  
  
"Who are you bringing to the wedding?" asked Ron. "Ginny's been at pains to tell everyone about how she snagged Oliver Wood as her date."  
  
"Is this going to happen at every wedding?" Harry shook his head. "You'd imagine we broke up six months ago, not six years. Poor Oliver must think he's just a hired suit."  
  
"Not even hired," remarked Ron. "Ginny isn't the sort to oblige anyone that way."  
  
"At least there's only one more to go. George showing any signs of settling down yet?"  
  
"Not one. But you never know your luck -- Oliver could knock Ginny up in the meantime and _they'd_ have to get married."  
  
"How could that happen? Ginny's saving herself for her wedding night," said Harry. His face showed just how much he approved of that moral stance.  
  
"The Second Immaculate Conception, maybe?"  
  
Harry sniggered. "So, who are _you_ bringing?"  
  
"I was thinking of bringing along Marcos -- you know, the absolutely divine Italian fashion designer I met in Via Fossa? We've been shagging the last three weekends in a row, which makes him practically my husband." Ron sucked thoughtfully on a pickle, a handful of which he'd snagged from the bowl on the bar before the descent of a herd of ravening stags had absorbed the rest. "Sadly I don't think my mother's heart could stand it. Marcos she could tolerate, but not his favourite raspberry-coloured frock coat."  
  
"So it'll be you and me making the two spare wotsits, as usual." Harry groaned. "I hardly thought that flying solo to Bill's wedding would merely be the beginning of a trend."  
  
"Buck up, lad. I happen to know that Amelia has wonderful taste in food -- and the starter's going to be prawn and lobster bisque!"  
  
"Really?" Harry's eyes lit up. Ron noticed that he hadn't ditched the owly specs even for a night out and stifled a cutting riposte on the subject. "You wouldn't be saying that just to tease and tantalise me, now would you?"   
  
Both Ron and Harry had developed an insane adoration for the pink soup at one of the previous weddings. Since then, seeing it on the menu had stimulated paroxysms of joy on their part. They had even been known to finish off the bowls of other guests who found it less than delectable.  
  
"Trust me, if I were trying to tantalise you I wouldn't be talking about lobsters," retorted Ron. "No -- it'll be there. Cross my heart and hope to die."  
  
"You _will_ die if you've been lying."   
  
"Would I lie to you, Harry?" Ron clenched his hands to his breast -- guiltily noting that his thumbnail was still the shade of ripe cherry that Marcos had painted it last Sunday -- and fluttered his eyelashes.  
  
Harry looked at him speculatively. "No, probably not. After all, you're not trying to have sex with me."  
  
"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Ron was genuinely affronted. "Are you saying that I lie to get people into bed?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "I'm saying you make all these men believe you're going to be a long-term feature in their lives, and then you dump them without preamble when you get bored of them."  
  
"Oh, that." Ron subsided. This attack was far less insulting than the idea that Ron seduced men on false pretences, having as it did the weight of the truth behind it. "Having a low boredom threshold is not a crime."  
  
"Is your life going to be a string of one-night stands?" inquired Harry.   
  
"No." Ron smiled beatifically. "Some of them are two-night stands."  
  
"Insufferable," said Harry, but his mouth was quirking.  
  
"I try," agreed Ron. "Oh, will you look at that. My drink has finally arrived."  
  
"That'll be two Sickles," announced the barman.   
  
Ron did a double-take. "Why is it colourless?"  
  
"What colour is vodka supposed to be?" demanded the barman, in tones of great affront. "Pink?"  
  
Ron refrained from enlightening him as to the existence of strawberry-flavoured vodka, and settled for, "I didn't order vodka, I asked for Firewhiskey."  
  
"Oh, well, we've run out." The barman shrugged, apparently in ignorance of the six or seven full bottles of Firewhiskey on shelves behind him.  
  
"Never mind." Ron released a gusty breath. "I've just decided to become teetotal."  
  
He slipped off the stool with immense relief, surreptitiously hitching up his low-ride jeans so that they weren't quite so lowly-ridden. The sight of his builder's crack was something Ron felt should be reserved for those who'd earned the privilege. Followed by an amused Harry, Ron wended his way over to the knot of brothers in the centre of the room.  
  
"Ron!" cried a cross-eyed Charlie. He reached his hands out to Harry. Harry skilfully evaded the embrace, and Ron was subjected to five minutes sobbed avowals of fraternal love from his brother before he managed to extricate himself.   
  
"Join the circle of trust," insisted Fred, who was wearing a necklace of phalluses. Against his will, Ron was squashed into a banquette with Harry on one side and Seamus on the other.   
  
"We're going to have a drinking game," said George.  
  
"Is that necessary?" asked Ron. "You seem to have nailed the technique."  
  
"Shut up, Ronniekins," said Fred pleasantly. "Now, who hasn't got a drink in front of them?"  
  
Seamus and Bill vociferously declared in the negative and were presented with shot-glasses of viscous green liquid. With rather less enthusiasm, Ron and Harry accepted glasses of the same.  
  
Ron leaned towards Harry to whisper into his ear, "I just want to know if this has already been digested."   
  
Harry, who'd downed his shot with more speed than finesse, already looked punch-drunk. He giggled at Ron's remark, his head lolling dangerously. Making a considerable attempt to not actually taste the drink, Ron threw back the shot.   
  
"Now, for the rules of the game," announced Fred. "They are simple because you lot are too drunk to be intelligent. We'll ask you a question and you either answer it or have another drink. Simple, yeah?"  
  
"Okay, I'll go first," said George. "Fred, have you ever … slept with more than one girl at a time?"  
  
Fred smirked. "Too easy. Yes, I have. Multiple times."  
  
There was a chorus of boos and hoots. Ron kept his doubts about this statement to himself. Unconscious girls were a regular feature at the twins' mansion after one of their legendary parties, but the Don Juan of the business world Fred was not. It all depended upon your interpretation of 'slept'.  
  
"My turn now!" Fred turned to Seamus. "All right, mate … has a girl ever let you come in the back door?"  
  
Seamus blinked, his eyes cobwebbed with thick red veins. "Lemme think …"  
  
"You wouldn't have to think if you'd done it!" crowed Charlie. "Drink!"  
  
The rest of the table took up the refrain. Ron maintained a dignified silence, as did Harry. Ron turned to his friend and discovered that this was because Harry was fast asleep.  
  
"What are you like, Harry," muttered Ron. He shuffled across so that Harry's hot cheek was resting against Ron's shoulder, and returned his attention to the game.  
  
Seamus was snorkelling back two shots -- his 'punishment' for failing to answer -- as his face became more and more slab-like. From previous experience, Ron knew this meant that Seamus was roughly ten minutes away from total catatonia.  
  
"Now it's Ron's turn. Hmm. What could we possibly ask Ron that anyone wants to know?" Fred's grin had a cruel edge. Ron felt his arms come out in goose-pimples.  
  
"I'll answer anything," he said, meeting his brother's gaze defiantly. "In full and extensive detail."  
  
"I think not." Fred nudged Seamus. "Go on, Seamus. What do you want to ask Ron?"  
  
"He's a stud, Ron is," slurred Seamus. "He can't have no embar -- emhar -- bad memories."  
  
Ron recalled Bob and The Incident With The Chilli Sauce and begged to differ, but he wouldn't give the present company the satisfaction.  
  
"Oh, I'm sure he has one or two." Fred brought his mouth level with Seamus' ear.   
  
A moment later, Seamus raised his head with evident effort. "Ron," he managed and paused, apparently well satisfied with this achievement. He decided to repeat it. "Ron. Ron, how many of the people you've sed -- sed --"  
  
"Seduced," supplied Fred.  
  
"Yeah, that. How many turned you down?" With the last syllable, Seamus slumped back against the seat and passed out.  
  
Ron snorted. "None. I've never met anyone I couldn't seduce."  
  
"Well, well, well." Fred was practically purring. Ron's marrow froze as he realised he'd played right into his brother's hands. "That sounds like a challenge to me."  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
"No!" Ron hunched into his cream silk dressing-gown.   
  
"But, Ron." Fred's voice was sweetly compelling. "You did say you'd prove it if asked. And I'm asking."  
  
"And I was drunk! We all were. It was a stupid drinking game, for crying out loud." Ron's trembling fingers plucked at the cool fabric swaddling him. For once, he didn't think this was primarily due to aftershocks from the mother-in-law of all hangovers.   
  
"Ah, that is where I must respectfully disagree." Fred reached into the pocket of his deeply unflattering leopardskin-print robe and extracted a small vial of what looked like kiwi-juice. "This wasn't just any drinking game. It was a _Weasley_ drinking game."  
  
With a sinking feeling, Ron took the bottle from Fred and scanned the label. A few seconds later, he let out a wild shriek and launched himself at his brother.  
  
"You bloody _scum_!" Ron threw vicious punches, few of which managed to connect. With an 'Oof,' Fred pushed Ron back on to the sofa as if he'd been nothing more than a petulant kitten. Ron bristled. " _Bastard._ "  
  
"Please, Ron." Fred wore a pained expression. "Such language from one so young and unspoiled! I am frankly amazed."  
  
"You'll be frankly dead in a few minutes," snarled Ron. "Does everyone else know about this little … concoction of yours?"  
  
"Of course not. It's a Truth Or Dare Draught, so it only kicks in when someone agrees to a Truth _and_ a Dare." Fred smirked. "Like you did."  
  
"You can't possibly hold me to this." All resistance drained out of Ron as he grasped the full horror of what he'd been trapped into.  
  
"I won't," Fred pointed out. "The potion does that."  
  
"And what happens if I don't comply?"  
  
Fred looked positively evil as he replied, "We're not too sure, actually. We haven't carried out complete trials yet."  
  
"I should sue you for this." Ron flopped back against his sequinned sofa cushions and felt oddly like crying.  
  
"Come on, now, Ron. Why would you do that? This is a god-given opportunity. You've wanted Harry all for yourself since you were a grubby little kid. And Harry's crying out to _be_ seduced."   
  
Fred took a tentative seat on Ron's armchair and sniffed an empty bottle of lube. "You're still using vanilla, I see. Look, I don't care if you believe me or not, but I do have Harry's best interests at heart. He's been very good to George and I -- to all of us, in case you haven't noticed. I was ever so pleased when he was going out with Ginny. He was the first boy worth her notice. But he's not got any in yonks."  
  
Ron shook his head. "Don't turn this into some secret act of philanthropy on your part. You say this is for Harry's benefit -- don't make me _laugh_. He'd be absolutely mortified if he knew someone was seducing him under _geas_ , not to mention someone he trusts. And even without all of that, Harry likes women. I'm not sure how this escaped your notice, but _I have a penis_."  
  
"As does Harry." Fred steepled his fingers and smiled. "And I get a strong feeling that Harry would like nothing better than to play with yours --"  
  
"DON'T." Ron jumped to his feet and extended a shaking finger. "Don't you _dare_ make fun of that. This my _life_. You want to fuck Harry's life up, then you go seduce him. I don't care what happens to me because of that stupid potion, but I won't see Harry go down because of it. He's suffered enough, Fred! Nearly everyone fancies someone of the same sex at one stage, but it's not like deciding to change shirts. What you're suggesting could ruin over a decade of great friendship just because Harry might want someone to suck him off in a lonely moment, and I'm available. You think I haven't thought about it? Of course I have! I've thought about nearly every man you know that way. That doesn't mean I should proposition any of _them_."   
  
Fred's face was very still.  
  
Ron took a deep breath. "You want someone to rescue Harry from celibacy? Ask Ginny. She's never got over him properly and we know Harry liked her."  
  
"We do? Or you do?"  
  
Ron made an exasperated noise. "What's the difference?"  
  
"I'll tell you something, Ron." Fred crammed himself deeper into the armchair. Ron hoped the dildo he thought he might have lost down between the cushions hadn't been, for both their sakes. It had pearls on it. "Harry was never looking for a girlfriend in Ginny. He wanted to adopt a whole family. I'm sure you know more than me about Harry's childhood, but even if you just read the papers you'd know that it was less than perfect. Now, if you were Harry -- a man who'd lost his parents at a young age, and discovered he was the saviour of wizardkind before his pubes grew, what would you want out of life?"  
  
"I don't know." Ron was tired of the game. "Less interfering, annoying, horrible friends, maybe?"  
  
Fred shook his head, as if Ron had actually made a debatable point. " _Normality_. A loving wife, cheeky kids, a home in the country. You know and I know that having all that is less than the wonderful fate it's made out to be, but Harry doesn't. I think he wants a normal life more than he wants anything else, including the satisfaction of his own desires."  
  
"Which include me, I suppose?" Ron snorted. "Forgive me if I feel I have a better eye for these things than you do. Harry is _not_ gay."  
  
"Then why are you so worried?" Fred eyeballed him. "If Harry is so staunchly straight, no amount of seduction on your part will make a damn bit of difference. Or are you afraid of spoiling your spotless reputation?"  
  
He stood up and brushed off his robes. Stuck for words, his anger at Fred's ability to twist everything to suit his own argument growing, Ron stared up at him with a burning gaze.  
  
"Admit it," said Fred. "You'd _love_ a guilt-free crack at him. And just to prove how sincere I am, I'll take the fall for this. I'll even claim I put you under Imperius if you're that jittery. We both think Harry deserves a bit of happiness. Maybe he won't find it with you, but what if he does? Could you live with denying him that?"  
  
He'd Disapparated before Ron could come up with a suitably damning reply.  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
Luna ran the _Quibbler_ office on very loose discipline. So long as Ron logged in his presence every day, he was free to come and go as he pleased. As the caffeine-boosted free-for-all was not the ideal environment for fostering concentration, Ron usually took the bulk of his work home.   
  
He'd developed a routine of turning up for work at about half-past nine in the morning, drinking his weight in coffee with the girls from the enormous Astrology section, pottering around his desk, watering his money-plant, and going back to his flat at lunchtime. At five o'clock he returned to the office to hand in his corrected articles and say goodbye to everyone. 'Goodbye' usually extended to drinks in the nearby pub, followed by the prerequisite curry and chips and a trip to the gym (Ron) and to an off license (everyone else).   
  
At least once a week, Ron met up with Harry, Seamus, Neville and Dean. After that, he had a choice of dozens of invitations he'd collected over the weekend; it was up to him which of these engagements he kept. Wherever he went, the white jeans ensured him instant approval.   
  
Since he'd broken up with his last girlfriend a year before, Harry had taken to dropping in on Ron during the afternoon. The Auror Department turned a blind eye to Harry's cutting, because he was the most valuable -- or dangerous -- member of the squad. For a week after the stag party, Harry hadn't visited once. Although he'd usually be worried at this lack of contact, the thought that the cause of Harry's truancy might be a new girlfriend made Ron inordinately relieved.  
  
Ron had been telling the truth to Fred -- he had thought about what it would be like if Harry was more than just his mate. How could he not? Harry was his closest friend in all the world. He'd spent more time with Harry than anyone else. He knew things about Harry that no one else did.   
  
After Hermione had figured it out, Harry had been the first one Ron had come out to. In fact, he'd known Harry for so long he couldn't even say if he was good-looking or not. It was impossible to judge that, when he'd seen Harry's worst acne, his bandy eleven-year-old legs and every single wound Harry had ever suffered. Harry was just Harry. He had black hair, and green eyes, and wore glasses and awful clothes. The end.  
  
Ron had always quenched any sexual feelings for his friends before they had time to evolve. It was less difficult than it sounded. When he was horny, which was nearly all the time, Ron could find anyone attractive. That was a dangerous state of affairs, even if the person returned his affection. He had his disastrous relationship with Hermione to thank for that insight.  
  
In deference to this fact, Ron had been careful about his level of nakedness around his friends. Even during the rare times when he wasn't entertaining lovers in his flat, he opted towards an _al fresco_ approach to dressing. But when he knew Harry was coming, he made sure to at least wear trousers.   
  
That was why, when Harry finally and unexpectedly visited, Ron was sitting at the kitchen table with his feet propped up on the breadbin, wearing nothing but extremely brief and silky boxers (a gift from Marco, who liked to take them off) and a quill over one ear.  
  
Although Harry didn’t seem to pay this the slightest bit of attention -- going to hang up his travelling cloak with admirable customariness -- Ron himself was quite severely discomposed.  
  
Sitting down, Harry helped himself to a scone. They were a few days old -- Ron made them whenever he slept with someone, which only served to cement the general reverence they felt for him -- but Ron's preservative charms were excellent.  
  
"What you up to?" asked Harry thickly.  
  
"The usual." Ron felt a very old blush start up in his ears. He cast about for his dressing-gown, a tea towel, a handy wall -- anything to cover his nipples. "Correcting."  
  
"Mmhmm." Harry drew up a chair and reached for the teapot. "Anything interesting these days? Any fantastical creatures we should be on the look-out for?"  
  
"No, actually." Ron tucked his legs under the table, the better to hide the embroidered hearts on his boxers. "Luna's started me on a new project. I forget what daft name she gave it, but it's basically a forum for readers to publish fictional short stories."  
  
"That sounds interesting." At the look on Ron's face, Harry amended, "Well, more interesting than village fêtes and stuff."  
  
"Some of it's truly horrendous," said Ron. "Hermione would cry if she saw it. Where've you been lately?"  
  
"Miss me, did ya?" Harry grinned. "I got a sudden posting to Croatia. Very hush-hush, so I couldn't Owl you. Also very boring-boring, as it turned out -- another false alarm. So they're back to paying me to hang out with you and eat all your scones."  
  
"Perhaps I should start charging you for flour," said Ron vaguely. So it wasn't a new girlfriend after all. That meant there was no way to fox Fred's ludicrous blackmail potion. Ron hoped his death wouldn't be _too_ painful.  
  
"I'm going to crash on your sofa for a bit," said Harry. "Have you got much more to do?"  
  
"Nah, only a few pages. This story's actually decent, so I have to make sure it's also publishable."  
  
"Okay." Harry picked up another scone and wandered into the sitting room.  
  
For the first time ever, Ron found it difficult to concentrate. Harry knew how to be quiet and unobtrusive, and he'd never distracted Ron before. He hadn't suddenly grown louder or started demanding Ron's attention. So it had to be all Ron.   
  
After Ron had slashed out two perfectly acceptable sentences that were pivotal to the plot, he gave up. He'd simply have to thrash this out with Harry. He was certain that Harry was even less keen to be seduced by Ron than Ron was to seduce Harry, and Harry knew all about the Dark Arts. They could figure this out together. And then kill Fred.  
  
All the same, Ron's heart was in his mouth as he approached the sofa. He'd have loved to put on some more clothes, but his bedroom was off the sitting room and Harry would surely wonder what had prompted such a sudden wardrobe change. With relief, he spotted his dressing gown draped over the armchair and slung it across his shoulders.   
  
Harry was engrossed in one of the stories, sheaves of which were scattered all around Ron's flat. He looked up only when Ron sat down beside him, a respectable distance away. Ron was always careful not to freak out his school friends by being too candidly gay, although with his bar friends he was as touchy-feely as could be. Once he'd even kissed Harry on the cheek in accidental greeting, and had felt terrible about it for ages afterwards -- far worse than Harry, who forgot about it after five minutes of teasing.  
  
"Hey, this one isn't too bad," said Harry. "It's a bit dramatic, but I've read worse."  
  
"Ah, yes." Ron noted his own illegible scrawl in the margin. "Unfortunately, when you read on, it turns into eye-watering erotica. Even if it was good, which it most definitely isn't, it's not at all suitable for the _Quibbler_."  
  
"Perhaps if it was about unicorns, it would be okay," mused Harry. He sent Ron a cheeky grin. "Even I'd pay to read unicorn sex."  
  
Ron shuddered. "Please, don't put that inspiration out there. Oh, won't anyone think of the editors?"  
  
Harry skimmed the next few pages. Ron rolled his eyes. Harry was such a kid when it came to porn. Thankfully he'd managed to conceal his impressive collection from Harry all these years. Harry would spontaneously combust just from looking at the covers.   
  
Harry sniggered. "Listen to this: _he tenderly pressed her to his broad chest and began to kiss her more deeply, sucking on her tongue_. You can't even do that!"  
  
"Do what? Describe your own chest as broad? It's conceited, but that never stopped anyone before." Ron hooked the edge of his wicker coffee table with one foot and dragged it closer so that he could rest his legs on it. They were so long that he rarely felt comfortable unless he was splayed out over something.  
  
"No, you idiot." Harry thumped Ron's shoulder. "The whole sucking tongues bit. You knew that's what I was talking about!"  
  
"What's so implausible about that? Haven't you ever sucked …" Ron curbed his tongue before he named the obvious candidate for sucking "… an ice lolly? Sucking is a natural function of the tongue."  
  
"Sure, but … sucking someone _else's_ tongue?" Harry puckered up his lips. "See," he said, his voice sounding smushed, "dish ish hew you kish."  
  
"No," replied Ron, trying not to laugh -- Harry looked like a startled cod. "Correction. That is how you _start_ to kiss."  
  
"Nope, I still can't picture it," said Harry. "Obviously this sucking tongues business is a literary fallacy."  
  
"It's not!"  
  
"Just admit I'm right for once!" Harry was laughing now, poking Ron with the rolled-up parchment.   
  
"You're wrong," said Ron authoritatively. "Look, I'll bloody show you."  
  
This brought Harry up short. "You're going to suck _my_ tongue?"  
  
"Yes," said Ron, throwing caution to the winds. "Unless you admit I was right."  
  
"Never," declared Harry. "Go on then." He was smiling, but his cheeks had begun to glow.  
  
"Fine," said Ron, with bad grace. This was most definitely _not_ how he'd have chosen to woo Harry, had he even decided to follow such a absurd course of action.   
  
He shifted closer to Harry on the sofa -- closer than he'd sat to anyone he hadn't subsequently made love to. The thought of making love to Harry made Ron sick with nerves. He had no doubt in his prowess, but with Harry it wouldn't just be one night of buff bodies and witty chat-up lines. It would be years and years of accumulated affection, sharing and friendship -- in other words, completely and utterly terrifying.  
  
Harry was still grinning at him, as if this was a huge joke -- as if it was _funny_. Ron narrowed his eyes. He knew he was an excellent kisser. He'd had plenty of chances to hone a naturally good technique, and he'd reaped the rewards many times. How much would it take to make Harry weak? Not as much as it would take to simply wipe the smug smirk off his face, that was for sure.  
  
"Part your lips a little," instructed Ron, as if from far away. Harry's mouth quirked, then opened. His challenging gaze met Ron's for an instant before Harry closed his eyes, his expression one of sarcastic supplication.  
  
In a rustle of silk, Ron bent forwards to touch lips with Harry. Ron could feel the shock of the touch jolt through Harry before he was still once more. Harry's hands clenched into fists against the sofa cushions.   
  
Still connected mouth to mouth, Ron tilted his head and slipped his tongue past Harry's teeth. Harry was immediately responsive, drawing a gasp of air from within Ron's mouth and stiffening.   
  
Although he hadn't meant to do anything more than kiss Harry, Ron found himself stroking Harry's neck to relax him. His fingers dipped into Harry's thick, heavy hair, teasing the sensitive skin around his hairline where Ron himself liked to be touched. After a pathetically short time, Harry submitted to Ron's caresses. His hands left the sofa to slide around Ron's waist, gently rubbing the nubbly satin of his dressing gown.  
  
Ron pushed Harry's lips further apart with his own, roughly, because this was where things always got rough. It was generally also when Ron got …  
  
And yes, this time was no exception. Ron put the worry of explaining that away to the back of his mind, concentrating instead on the surprising softness of Harry's mouth. The word _unforgettable_ drifted across his mind, but that was easy to quash.   
  
The cold fear uncoiling in Ron's gut, demanding to know _What have you done?_ , reminded him that he'd started this to prove a point. Brushing mouths with Harry, heady and disorienting as it was (and had not been since the very first time he'd kissed a boy), was not enough.   
  
Ron's hand tightened on Harry's neck, eliciting a shiver from him, as he licked his tongue deep into Harry's mouth. He stroked Harry's tongue with it and this time, Harry did not just shiver, he jumped.   
  
_The finishing touch_ , Ron thought muzzily. He curled his tongue around Harry's to draw it out between his lips … and sucked on it.   
  
His mind went into a tailspin of lust as he sucked harder and more enthusiastically, forgetting for a moment whose tongue it was. Under his arm Harry's shoulders jerked -- once, twice, three times -- as Ron kissed him for dear life, his thumb searching out the fluttering pulse in Harry's neck.   
  
Ron had a lot more self-control than Harry. Bob, for all his misapprehensions about chilli sauce, had known a thing or two about willpower. But it was all melting away in the face of Harry's ragged little breaths and the sloppy, erotic way his tongue was slipping over and under Ron's own.  
  
White sparks began building behind Ron's eyes. For a moment, his arousal prevailed over his sense and he shoved Harry back against the sofa. All the things his body was accustomed to doing -- sliding one thigh up between two, arching against the pleasing protrusion of a hipbone, slipping a hand under the shirt that was barring him from the hot skin underneath -- he began. He continued for just long enough to leave him mortified beyond belief when his senses staged a coup and let him spring back. Panting, he bent his knees to his chest and scrubbed at his slick mouth.   
  
Ron couldn't meet Harry's eyes, but he could see Harry rearranging his jeans and tugging down his floppy jumper. The thick canvas of his trousers protected him from undue ignominy, but Ron knew exactly what he'd done to Harry and he wasn't proud of it.  
  
"I concede," said Harry, after a long pause. His voice was as bright as ever, although he sounded a little breathless. "It seems one can suck another's tongue. As usual, you were right. I should have known better than to contest your superior knowledge, eh?"  
  
And, to Ron's astonishment, he playfully nudged Ron's foot with his knee.  
  
"Did you --" Ron began, only to find that his mouth was so dry he couldn't form the words. He swallowed a few times. "Didn't you --"  
  
"What?" Harry put a light hand on Ron's knee, forcing him to look up. "You're a bloody good kisser, by the way. I suppose it must be all the practice."  
  
"It helps," croaked Ron. Harry was acting so normally that it was weird. It didn't seem to bother him that he'd just had a dirty great snog with his best friend, who happened to also be a man. So if Harry could deal with it, why couldn't Ron?  
  
"You look tired," said Harry sympathetically. "Correcting all these daft stories must be exhausting. Here, I'll put on another pot of tea, shall I?" Without waiting for an answer, he vaulted off the sofa and into the kitchen.   
  
Surmising that he wanted a chance to clean himself up, Ron didn’t stop him, but the last thing he felt like right now was tea. A sledgehammer to the cranium, or an industrial-strength Memory Charm, yes; tea, not so much.  
  
Checking that Harry was fully absorbed in his task -- and whistling! _Whistling_! -- Ron stretched out his legs with an audible crack of bones. Although his boxers were tented to the utmost, Ron wasn't going to indulge himself. He knew a charm for getting rid of troublesome erections. It was painful, and left you feeling like you had underpants made of ice for hours afterwards, but it was far better than the alternative.  
  
Wincing, Ron pressed his wand to his crotch and said the incantation. It was with a clear conscience, but very cold thighs, that he accepted Harry's offer of a cuppa.

 

**i + b**

The next three months were busy ones in Ron Weasley's life. They each saw a massive event taking place that significantly affected the course of his life.  
  
In the first month, Luna appointed Ron to full Editorship of the _Your Story_ segment of the _Quibbler_. At first Ron was inclined to view this as a very minor promotion, as the readership of the _Quibbler_ revolved around the quirky, off-beat 'news' items and the Astrology section, which was several pages long. However, _Your Story_ grew rapidly in popularity. Ron and Luna had both underestimated the attraction to nonentities of having their names in print and the lure of the monthly prizes. Soon, people who would not previously have used the _Quibbler_ to line bird-cages were buying it in droves, all because they were keen to see the newest _Your Story_. Ron became something of a minor celebrity, and wizards no longer laughed when he told them what he did for a living. As for the denizens of Canal Street, where Ron Apparated home every night, he was no longer lying when he said that he edited a magazine.  
  
In the second month Fred visited Ron again. Ron was in such a whirl of work that he'd hardly had time to think about the implications of kissing Harry. Harry himself had seemed to feel there were no ramifications to the event, and called round to eat Ron's scones with as much impunity as ever. When Fred announced that the Truth Or Dare Draught had been a hoax, Ron didn't even have the energy to violently murder him. He coldly informed his brother that he hadn't seduced Harry, that he had no intention of so doing, and that the next time Fred pulled a stunt like that Ron would Stun him, Vanish his clothing and leave him tied to a lamp-post in Canal Street. Whether or not this chastened Fred sufficiently Ron had no way of knowing, and he found he barely cared.  
  
In the third month, Harry got engaged to Romilda Vane.  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
"Are you sure you want me to be your best man?" asked Ron doubtfully.  
  
"Why? Because Romilda doesn’t like you?" Harry stared mournfully at his reflection in the enormous gilt-framed mirror. " _God_ , I look like a berk."  
  
"True," Ron agreed. Top hats and tails were simply not Harry. The dove-grey colour drained his face, making him look like a consumptive pigeon. "Why doesn't she like me? That's news to me."  
  
"Apparently you made nasty remarks about her where she could hear them, spilled her drinks, suggested that she lose half a stone and pulled mean faces," said Harry. "I never thought that would scare you off, though. _God_ , I look like a berk."  
  
"So we've gathered." Ron lounged back on the twiddly gold chair, resplendent in plum satin trousers and a severe white shirt with a pointed collar and huge cuffs. He still let Marco dress him, even though they were no longer shagging, but he drew the line at the frothy lace shirts Marco begged him to wear. He'd never got over his dress robes in fourth year. "No, it's not that. You know I don't approve of you marrying gold-diggers. Also, I'd want to buy you a new wardrobe as a wedding present instead of a set of saucepans and I don't know how well that would go down with the missus."  
  
"She's not a gold-digger." Harry twisted around to see if his back view was any improvement on his front. Ron could have told him that it wasn't. "Her family are filthy rich. And why do you want to buy me a new wardrobe? My flat has built-in ones. _God_ , I look like a berk."  
  
"Don't wear the damn thing then." Ron sipped champagne delivered to him by a liveried house-elf. Harry was paying through the nose for his wedding gear, but you couldn't accuse Meanstar's Menswear Emporium of not providing every possible frill for your Galleon. "I don't mean furniture, I mean clothes. Some nice jeans that aren't designed for your obese elder brother, shirts that go with your hair, shoes that _weren't_ in fashion when Columbus sailed to the Americas …"  
  
"Romilda wants me to wear it. She's got her heart set on it. _God_ , I look like a berk."  
  
Ron snorted, sending champagne bubbles up his nose. Romilda had her heart set on a lot of things, from gold-flake on the wedding invitations to sapphire-studded napkin rings at the reception. Bless Harry's generous, unsuspecting heart, he'd never considered that she was taking him for everything he had. If Ron hadn't been sure Harry loved the girl he would have shaken some sense into him long ago.   
  
"As for the wardrobe, if you really want to buy me clothes, go ahead." Harry paused, then turned to Ron with a strained expression. "I don’t actually have to _be_ there, do I?"  
  
"Not at all," Ron assured him. "I've got your measurements from doing this charade."  
  
"Fine. Knock yourself out." Harry took off his top hat and scrubbed his hands through his hair. "I'm going to take this lot off. It fits fine. I don't want to have to go near it again until June nineteenth."  
  
"The Day of the Beast!" intoned Ron. "The Apocalypse cometh!"  
  
"Thank you, that's very supportive." Harry slipped into the changing room.  
  
After a suitable interval, during which he dispensed with two more glasses of champagne -- "Excellent vintage," he informed the house-elf, and burped -- Ron followed him. Harry was standing in his boxers and socks, glaring at the crumpled suit on the floor. It looked suspiciously like a skinned elephant.  
  
Ron felt a bit flushed and uncomfortable at seeing Harry in this state of undress. But he'd long since accepted the fact that Harry did not view him as a sexual being and, hence, someone to be avoided when semi-clothed. Harry had his arms crossed in irritation, covering the origin of the skeins of dark hair that trailed down his chest.  
  
"Tell you what, after the wedding we'll have a ritual burning," suggested Ron, and was gratified to see Harry smile.   
  
"I was meaning to tell you about the stag party," said Harry. His hands slipped down to fiddle with the hem of his boxers, a sure sign he was about to deliver some unpleasant news. "I actually don't want one."  
  
"What?" Ron was dismayed. "Why ever not?"  
  
Harry shrugged. "I've been to enough of them to last me a lifetime. They're not fun any more. I was hoping you and me could just go for a drink together -- somewhere we won't be recognised."  
  
"What, like Canal Street?" scoffed Ron.  
  
Harry's fingers twisted the cloth of his boxers. "That'd do. I doubt I'd know many people there."  
  
Ron made a moue. "If it's Canal Street you want, to Canal Street we shall go. Far be it from me to deny you of having your way in one thing in this damn wedding."  
  
"Thanks, Ron." Harry's smile was one of pure relief, until he encountered his face in the mirror. A furrow appeared between his brows. " _God_ , I look like a berk."  
  
Ron was momentarily confused -- after all, Harry had discarded the hated morning suit. Then he realised what Harry was really saying.   
  
He pulled Harry into a brief, awkward hug, his back against Ron's shiny-shirted chest. As his ears began to flame at the heat of Harry's skin under his fingers, Ron stepped back.  
  
"You don't," he said. "What you need is some champagne." He grinned. "It's an excellent vintage."  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
Ron held his breath as Harry stepped out of the bathroom. Aside from his bare feet, he was ready for a night on the town. Ron felt a shot of vicarious pride in his handiwork.   
  
Harry tugged at the cuffs of the vermilion silk shirt. The first button was sewn so low that the shirt slipped all over his collarbones, revealing new slivers of flesh each time. The looseness of the silk contrasted nicely with the black jeans, which were moulded to Harry's thighs. Fortunately Harry had the legs to carry them off, or the whole outfit would have been rubbish.  
  
"I swear to God, Ron Weasley, if you're just trying to make me look silly --" he began.  
  
"Shh." Ron put a finger to his lips. "Don't ruin it." Ron followed the swaying lines of Harry's body as he shifted edgily from foot to foot, entranced. "That shirt is so, so beautiful."  
  
"Why don't you wear it, then?" snapped Harry.  
  
"Vermilion? With _my_ hair? Are you insane?"  
  
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Are you ready to go?"  
  
Ron reviewed his outfit. He'd finally retired the mesh vest in favour of a filmy white t-shirt that clung to the lines of his muscles, combined with the scruffy ripped jeans that were all the rage. Trust Harry to think he wasn't ready!  
  
"Absolutely. You, however, are not."  
  
Digging into his lacquered trinket box, Ron retrieved a fine silver chain and two plain silver rings. Harry watched him suspiciously.   
  
"Sit down, and close your eyes. I'll tell you when you can open them," said Ron imperiously. After shaking his head, Harry did as he was bid. In his or Romilda's hands, he was complete putty, Ron reflected smugly.  
  
Taking a seat beside him, Ron fastened the chain around Harry's slender neck. The shirt was sliding down his left shoulder by now, showing plenty of skin to set off the metal. Ron took each of Harry's hands in turn, noting that the palms were damp, and slid a ring on to the middle finger of each. Harry made as if to open his eyes, but Ron covered them with his hand while he Summoned the _pièce de resistance._  
  
If Ron's hands trembled slightly as he brushed glitter across Harry's high cheekbones and dabbed his already full lashes with black powder, there was no one there to witness it.  
  
"Now am I ready?" demanded Harry.  
  
"Harry, if you want to go out without shoes that's fine by me, but don't complain when you get tetanus from a dirty cobblestone." Ron dumped the make-up into his tart sack, making a huge clatter to give his heart time to calm down.  
  
"Buggering hell." Ron could hear Harry stumbling around behind the sofa. "Oh my God! You put make-up on me!"  
  
"Don't be so conservative, Harry. It doesn’t become you."  
  
"Are _you_ wearing make-up?"   
  
"Of course." Ron displayed his face, with black-ringed eyes and smoky lids, for inspection. "Not that you'll notice mine in a dark club. But _you_ will shine like a star."  
  
"Do I want to shine like a star?" asked Harry, sounding doubtful.  
  
"Everyone wants to shine like a star. Now get your arse into gear! We've been depriving Canal Street of our presence for far too long."  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
"Who on earth is he?" breathed Marcos, shimmying next to Ron. "Ron, he's perfectly edible."  
  
Ron glanced over Marcos' shoulder to where Harry was leaning against the bar, his head tipped back in laughter. In a minute Ron would have to go save Harry from the Gigolo Twins, as everyone called two determined hit-and-run artists who sucked people in with their golden good looks and spat them out again like a faulty vacuum cleaner. Until then, he was enjoying his spin on the dance floor. Marcos would make anyone look good by association, but Ron loved dancing too much to care even if he looked like Nellie the Elephant.  
  
"He's also perfectly engaged," replied Ron. "He's getting married tomorrow."  
  
"Ooh. Commitment." Marcos raised two neatly plucked eyebrows. "I'm surprised that you'd associate with someone who knew the meaning of the word. Is it anyone we know?"  
  
"No," Ron laughed. He spun them around, hips jabbing and cloth tangling in the violence of movement. "Because it's a girl."  
  
"Good grief." Marcos nearly tripped. "You brought him to _Canal Street_ for a straight stag party?"  
  
"Yeah. That's what he wanted." Ron closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his sweat-damp hair, swaying to the music.  
  
"The Gigolos are closing in for the kill … does his ideal stag party include a bondage threesome?"  
  
"Shit, no." Ron extricated himself from Marcos, leaving behind several buttons. "I'll see you later."  
  
"I'll bet," said Marcos sardonically. He was already alighting on a slender piece of androgyny as Ron sprinted to the rescue.  
  
"You're super cute," the taller Gigolo was crooning, as his brother stroked Harry's cheek. Harry was several shots drunker than Ron had left him, and had reached his giggly and pliable stage. If it weren't for the Gigolo who had most of his body wrapped around Harry's, Harry would have fallen over.  
  
"Shanks," slurred Harry. "Oh, dere y'are, Ron."  
  
"Hello, Ron," said the shorter Gigolo seductively. Ron winced, remembering that when he'd first hit Canal Street he'd fallen for the Gigolos' pat lines. It wasn't a memory of which Ron was terribly fond, but it had taught him not to trust people so easily. "Long time, no see. Is this your friend?"  
  
" _Best_ friend," corrected Ron. "Thanks for minding him for me. We're going to dance now, aren't we, Harry?"  
  
"Sure." Harry's face broke into a loopy smile, and he lurched forward into Ron's arms. Ron had no intention of allowing Harry to show him up by letting him dance, so his drunken state was a boon.   
  
"Aw, Ron," complained the tall Gigolo. "We were having fun."  
  
"Not with _my_ friends, you don't."  
  
"Oh, come on, Ron," sighed the short Gigolo. He slotted himself behind Ron, his gauzy trousers leaving nothing to Ron's imagination. "Don't be a dog in the manger. If you don't want him, we'll have him."  
  
"What are you on about?"  
  
"You and Marcos," said the tall Gigolo. "Unless the Italian stallion has started making clothes with glue on them to trap pretty boys? 'Cause you seemed pretty _close_ just now."  
  
Ron's brow cleared. "Oh, for crying out loud. Come on, Harry."  
  
Harry, who was slumped against Ron's chest, roused. Ron swore he could feel Harry's eyelashes fluttering against his throat. "Where we goin'?"  
  
"Away from these has-beens," said Ron. He began to walk Harry in the direction of the bathrooms, feeling that Harry was in dire need of a healthy dash of water.  
  
"Enjoy!" one of the Gigolos called after them. "He's got a lovely tight arse."  
  
Seething, Ron guided Harry to the sinks. Three of the four stalls were occupied, and the rhythmic grunts and shuddering sighs suggested that micturition was not high on the occupants' list of priorities.  
  
"How do you feel, Harry?" asked Ron kindly. "How much did they give you to drink?"  
  
"Lots." Harry raised a limp hand to his forehead, smearing glitter on his nose. "Feel a bit funny."  
  
"I daresay." If the Gigolos had put something in Harry's drink, Ron would personally see to it that they wouldn't be able to sit down for a month. He ran the tap and cupped his hands beneath the spray. "Open your mouth, you need to drink some water."  
  
"'Kay." Harry opened his mouth like a baby bird, his head flopping forwards as Ron held his hands up. He slurped in large ungainly movements, dribbling water down his chin and trying to drink Ron's thumb as often as not. Ron repeated the process a number of times, until Harry perked up a little and the glazed look left his eyes.  
  
Ron ripped off some paper towel and dabbed at Harry's wet chin. "Have you had enough? Or do you want to go back out there? It's already one in the morning and you're getting married in less than fourteen hours."  
  
Harry shuddered. "Don't remind me. Keep thinking I'll wake up an' it'll all be a dream."  
  
"That's the vodka talking," said Ron, trying to hide his worry at Harry's words. He knew that Harry had never been enthusiastic about the palaver a huge society wedding entailed, but he'd never thought the wedding itself had been the cause of Harry's apathy.  
  
Harry shook his head, two wide swoops that allied to make Harry's shirt part company with his shoulder entirely. Ron resisted the urge to settle it back into a more respectable position -- after all, he'd chosen the shirt in the first place. "Nope. Big mistake. Big, big mistake."  
  
"Oh, Harry." Ron crouched down to peer into Harry's face. "I know it seems like a circus, but this time tomorrow it'll all be over. Romilda will be your wife, you'll be able to start a family with the woman you love …"  
  
"But I don't," whispered Harry. "Don't love her."  
  
Ron's heart constricted. "Why did you propose to her then, you daft bollocks?"  
  
Harry shrugged helplessly, his shirt slipping further downwards to reveal the tip of one pink nipple. "I didn't. She asked _me_."  
  
At that, Ron couldn't help but laugh. After a moment, Harry joined in, twisting his hand into Ron's shirtfront to steady himself. Ron found himself with a mouthful of fine black hair as Harry pressed his forehead to Ron's neck, convulsed with giggles. He seemed to be saying something in between gasping breaths.   
  
"What's that, Harry?" asked Ron.   
  
He attempted to prise Harry off but Harry shook his head, one lightening-fast hand snaking around Ron's back to pull him closer. Ron lost his balance and fell heavily against the sink, jarring his hipbone.  
  
This appeared to satisfy Harry, for he leaned back a little to mouth the words, "And _you_ didn't," before kissing Ron bruisingly hard.   
  
In abject shock, Ron let him. The feel of Harry's soft mouth on his own was dangerously sweet, and Harry's busy hands were delving under his shirt with terrifying agility.  
  
The door banged and two men stumbled in, snorting drunkenly. They halted at the sight of Ron and Harry. Harry had left Ron's mouth alone to press dry, trembling kisses into the flesh beneath his ear, so Ron was in a perfect position to note their surprised and somewhat approving faces.  
  
"Oy," said one, eventually, "that's what the toilets are for."  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
Ron knocked on the door of Harry's bedroom, holding the coat hanger from which dangled Harry's morning suit. With great reluctance, Ron had donned his wedding togs -- a grey suit with a yellow waistcoat -- but he was putting off having to wear the shiny black lace-up shoes for as long as possible.  
  
"Ahoy! Is there life in there?" he called, when there was no response to his knock.   
  
A shuffling followed by a loud thump suggested that Harry had exited his bed in the usual manner when hung over -- by falling off. A few heartfelt curses made it through the wood before Harry threw the door open, nearly every hair on his head horizontal and his eyes mere slits of dismal suffering. He was wearing his pyjamas, but the shirt was on backwards and unbuttoned.   
  
"I brought your suit," said Ron. He tried not to smile at Harry's horror-struck expression.  
  
"I'd managed to blank out its existence till now," he croaked. "Still, you don't look like too much of a prat."  
  
"You've forgotten that you have to wear a top hat." Ron draped the suit over Harry's unresisting arms. "Will I whip you up some Hangover Potion?"  
  
"Please," said Harry in heartfelt tones. As Ron turned for the kitchen, Harry added, his voice troubled, "Hey – I didn’t do anything – stupid last night, did I? Only, I can’t remember what happened, and I have this weird feeling I did something daft."  
  
 _Something daft_.   
  
"Nah," said Ron, striving to keep his voice light. "You got rottenly drunk, and snogged --"  
  
 _Me_ , his mind screamed.  
  
"-- one of those caged dancers for about five seconds. Then you passed out and I had to drag your sorry arse back here."  
  
"Oh, that's okay then." Harry's face was buoyed up with relief. "Some Hangover Potion and I'll be right as rain. Except for this suit."  
  
"Yeah," said Ron, thinking _God, you look like a berk._  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
The register office had been transformed into a hay fever dream. Luscious stacks of petals formed an altar at the top of the room and were heaped on to every available surface. While wizards had never subscribed en masse to Muggle religious trends, they weren't above adopting their prettier trappings. Ron secretly wondered if the room wasn't going to be used for a flower show directly after the wedding.   
  
He and Harry stood at the top of the room on a raised dais, staring at the ranks of gilt balloon-backed chairs that stood in serried rows as far as the eye could see. Most of what Ron termed 'the important people' -- the ones with whom Harry was actually acquainted and who weren't there just to ogle or gain newspaper inches -- had already arrived and were sitting uncomfortably in the middle of the room. Every so often they'd break into conversation, which was hurriedly stilled by the oppressive atmosphere. Even Ron got the feeling that the lilies were _looking_ at him.  
  
Harry, as usual, was twiddling with his cuff-links. He hadn't said much since Ron had woken him, and had only managed to eat one slice of toast before throwing it back up again. This was standard practice after the amount of alcohol Harry had shipped the night before, but the pinched look had yet to leave Harry's mouth.  
  
As Romilda's fashionable friends began to make their 'late' entrances -- each scowling at newer and even later arrivals as they paused in the doorway -- Harry finally spoke.  
  
"I am doing the right thing, aren't I?"  
  
Ron's heart sank. That was the last thing he felt qualified to judge. "Is this what you want?"  
  
Harry stared at a colossal bouquet of pansies for just a little too long. "Yes."  
  
"Then it's the right thing," said Ron with finality.   
  
At that moment the pianist struck up the Wedding March. In the last few minutes, the chairs had all been obscured by the couture of the guests. A nursery's worth of pretty young children in lilac velvet and Chantilly lace began skipping down the aisle between the seats. Ron thought he saw a few of his own nephews and nieces among the hordes.   
  
Romilda had chosen not to have adult bridesmaids. In Ron's considered opinion this was because she didn't want to be upstaged.  
  
Romilda herself appeared after a suitable pause, swathed in a cloud of tulle. She gripped her father's arm so hard that the old man was visibly wincing. Romilda's face was hidden behind a fall of silver net, anchored to her head by an immense coronet of flowers.  
  
"Meringue alert," said Ron out of the side of his mouth.   
  
"Don't be bitchy," said Harry. A little colour came back into his cheeks.  
  
The wedding procession proceeded apace. Romilda did not hesitate to scatter flower girls and pages who hampered her dash up the aisle. It was almost as if she sensed Harry's reluctance.   
  
When she reached Harry, she released herself from her father's arm without a backwards glance. Through the veil, Ron could decipher her expression and it sent a chill through him.  
  
The ancient Registrar of Ceremonies tottered up to the dais, almost tripping on his billowing beard. Reaching for Harry and Romilda's hands, he placed them together in the traditional symbol of partnership -- wrist clasping wrist -- that betokened agreement in everything from marriage to business deals.  
  
"I stand here as witness to the marriage of Romilda Valerie Mariah Serephina Vane and Harry James Potter," trilled the Registrar. "I call you all here present to also bear witness to this union. Do those assembled agree?"  
  
"We do," chorused the room. Ron only mouthed the words, but he doubted that anyone noticed.  
  
"Then I call on Romilda and Harry to plight their troth. They have chosen the symbol of rings to augur their future alliance."   
  
There was a long list of symbols to choose from, as Ron well knew. Fleur had deliberated over the matter for days. It wasn't just a choice of jewellery items. People could use tattoos, burning torches, doves or Pensieves -- and those were just the most popular options. Ron had heard rumours that the Death Eaters used live sacrifices.  
  
It was also his cue. Ron slipped the slim platinum bands from his pocket and held them loosely, ready for the vows.  
  
"Harry, do you plight your troth to this woman?" asked the Registrar.   
  
The marriage ceremony was extremely brief and simple in wizarding circles. When Ron had gone to the wedding of Hermione's cousin, he'd nearly fallen asleep during the endless proceedings.  
  
"Uh --" said Harry, glancing over his shoulder at Ron.  
  
Ron made an urgent 'Go on' gesture.   
  
"Well, do you?" said the Registrar, looking properly awake for the first time all morning.  
  
"No," said Harry, sounding utterly wretched.  
  
"What?" said the Registrar gleefully.  
  
"What?" echoed Romilda, in far more strident tones. She threw back her veil, the better to subject Harry to the full force of her glare.  
  
"I can't, I'm sorry, I can't do this," Harry babbled. "I --"  
  
Romilda cut him off by administering a ringing slap to his face. Harry stumbled backwards, stepping on Ron's foot.  
  
"This is your last chance, Harry Potter!" she hissed. "You're obviously under stress, or delusional, or enchanted -- _whatever_ \-- but take it back now and we'll forget all about it."  
  
"I _can't_ ," said Harry. He sounded wretched, but his voice gave no quarter.  
  
Romilda went very still for a moment. Then, with an almighty shriek, she tore off her veil and lobbed it at Harry's head. Still wailing like a banshee, she ran out of the room. All her fashionable friends and one or two of her family members followed. The rest glared at Harry, seeing their opportunity of ridding themselves of Romilda forever disappearing into the long grass.  
  
Harry sank down to sit on the dais, seemingly oblivious to the pop and acrid green smoke of the numerous wizarding cameras aimed at him.   
  
"Harry," sighed Ron. He sat down beside him, wishing he'd thought to bring along a pocket flask of whiskey. Then again, Harry dumping his fiancee at the altar had never featured in Ron's vision of today's events.  
  
"It was the right thing to do," said Harry, not sounding sure at all.  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
As much to his own surprise as anyone else's, Ron avoided Canal Street for the next few weeks. He had a legitimate excuse in the piles of work he now had to plough through, but he knew he'd have been able to make time if he really wanted to -- and the fact was, he didn't. The hard-drinking, hard-partying life he'd maintained for over five years was at last beginning to pall. Not to mention that for the first time ever, he and Harry had encountered a problem that they simply couldn't overcome.  
  
Harry refused to talk about why he wouldn't marry Romilda; Ron refused to let the matter die. They'd reached an amicable but cold impasse the week after the aborted wedding, when Ron had said that if Harry didn't want to talk, then neither did Ron. So they hadn't.  
  
None of this was helped by Fred's superior attitude. When pressed, he scoffed that anyone with an eye in their head could see why Harry had done it, but he refused to elucidate further. Hermione was in Belgium for a month-long conference on Magical Trade Barriers. Her owls had been full of cryptic congratulatory messages, from which Ron assumed that she thought that the wedding had gone ahead.   
  
To the outside world, Harry and Romilda had been a golden couple: he the dashing if retiring hero, she the fashionable socialite with dazzling good looks. No one who spent much time with Romilda liked her very much, but if Harry had decided to marry her then he must have long since conquered this instinctual reaction. It made his altar debacle all the more puzzling.  
  
At the end of six weeks, Ron decided that enough was enough. He dressed up, but with so little care that he couldn't have said what he was wearing; he went and stood at a bar, but his heart wasn't in it. He spotted several men eyeing him up. Ron's usual ploy would be to flirt with someone in the eye line of his intended target, to draw their interest and raise their hackles. It was a technique that only worked if you didn't care one way or another who you ended up with -- Ron wouldn't have dared to do it if he'd really fancied the one with whom he wasn't flirting. All the same, it had a high success rate.  
  
By eleven, Ron had had enough. Cocktails tasted sour in his mouth. He was uncomfortably aware that he had sixteen stories to proofread before Monday and that his trousers had begun to chafe. When he got home, however, he found himself unable to sleep. Amazed at how his life had changed, he made a mug of coffee and sat on the sofa -- working, at twelve midnight on a Friday.  
  
As usual, the majority of the stories were absolute tosh. Yet Ron was not permitted to dismiss them out of hand, in case one happened to contain a hidden literary gem. Resigning himself to a weary slog, he dipped his quill in red ink and began to read the first story that came to hand.  
  
 _When I was a kid, I dreamed of having a gorgeous wife with huge breasts who loved me desperately and would give me lots of kids. Of course, they'd all be perfectly behaved and permanently clean, and my wife would want to have sex with me every night._  
  
"What a load of tripe," groaned Ron. He dripped a blob of ink on the parchment. "Go on, detail your dirty fantasies for my enjoyment, you old pervert."  
  
 _Then I lost my virginity to a girl and realised I wasn't as turned on by girls as I'd thought I was._  
  
"Great. A coming out of the closet tale. Just what I need." Ron shook his head, willing his eyes to stop throbbing. His own coming out had been somewhat less than a Hallmark event.  
  
 _I didn't mind them and for ages I dated them anyway, sure I just needed to find the right girl. Unfortunately, my life doesn't work like that. I'd found the right person -- except that it wasn't a girl, it was a boy, and worse than that, he was my best friend.  
  
This would seem like a good thing, because my best friend was gay himself. However, I felt so bad for not realising his preferences before he told me that I didn't want to do anything else to jeopardise our friendship. Besides, I wanted to see how he got on before I committed myself to this kind of lifestyle._  
  
"Sly bastard," said Ron, torn between approval and disgust.  
  
 _And he got on splendidly. Too splendidly, in fact. He was a hit. I did my utmost to ensure that our friendship didn't change because he was gay, and so he'd tell me all about his boyfriends the same way we used to talk about girls. I don’t think he meant to go into so much detail, but by listening and not judging I managed to encourage him to tell me more and more. After a year, I knew as much as any young gay man. Everything he told me fuelled my fantasies. Soon, I wasn't thinking about girls at all. After a while, I wasn't even thinking about boys -- only him._  
  
"That's fascinating, love," Ron told the parchment. He yawned into his fist. "But we're looking for stories, not bare-all diary entries."   
  
Still, he was mildly intrigued. It sounded such an unlikely scenario -- the man was in love with another, gay, man. Why he didn't just make a move was beyond Ron.  
  
 _Meanwhile, he thought I was straight because I still went out with girls. This was just because they kept asking me._  
  
"Full of ourselves, aren't we," remarked Ron, smirking.  
  
 _And I was starting to get worried. Of course, I didn't want him to get serious about another man who wasn't me -- but he had turned into a serial monogamist. His sex appeal had gone to his head and he treated his boyfriends as if they were disposable. Which, to him, they were. He's so sexy he could have anyone he wants -- I'm the only one who knows about all his flaws and lack of self-esteem.  
  
I don't **just** want to have sex with him, even though I do want that -- except I'd be terrible at it. But it doesn't matter. Every time I see him I want to touch him and I forget how many other lovers he has to compare me to. I want him to stick around. I want to live with him, and go out with him, and do soppy romantic couple-y things with him, and argue with him, and wake up next to him.   
  
My favourite fantasy isn't even about sex. We're just lying on the sofa together. It's a bit squashed, but that only means that he has to hold me tightly so I don't fall off, and obviously that doesn't bother me at **all**. My head is against his chest, all lovely and flat and warm, and I can breathe him in -- he always smells good, he has lots of nice shower gels and aftershaves. He's stroking my hair, lifting it up at the bottom and tickling my scalp. A lot of my girlfriends liked having me brush their hair, but they never offered to do the same to me. I pretend he'd know I like it. Our other hands are tangled together. As I drift off to sleep, he'd tell me things I already knew -- like that he loves me, and he'll always be there for me, and that I need a shave.  
  
The only problem is, he never will say these things to me. So I have to do it instead.   
  
Ron, I love you._  
  
There the missive ended. Ron looked at it in shock for a long time. The last four words had been written in an achingly familiar script. The rest was in block capitals, which was part of the submission requirements for _Your Story_.   
  
Harry was a gambler by nature. Was he foolish enough to risk getting married to a woman he didn't love just to get Ron's attention?  
  
There was only one person who knew the answer to that better than Ron.  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
Harry was fast asleep when Ron Apparated to his flat. The wards had long since been keyed to him, and Ron knew the place well enough to be able to Apparate right to Harry's bedroom door.  
  
A slice of moonlight lay across the rumpled sheets. Harry slept on his back, all four limbs splayed out like a starfish. The night was sultry, and Harry had always been a hot creature; the discarded pyjamas on the floor were testimony to the soaring temperatures.   
  
Ron took a moment to appreciate, as he'd never permitted himself to do before, the extreme beauty of Harry's naked back. With a thrill that was part sexual frisson, part giddy anticipation, and partly something Ron had never felt before, he realised that this was all his for the taking.  
  
Soundlessly, Ron stripped off his robe and shoes, leaving him nude but for the fine silver chain he'd once loaned to Harry. Ron had put it on the day after the cancelled wedding and hadn't remembered to take it off since.  
  
He ghosted towards the bed, his breath quickening with desire. Years of repression had taken their toll. Ron was hard-pressed not to moan as Harry shifted in his sleep, sliding one knee up the bed and away from the scant protection provided by the sheet. A fine sheen of sweat covered his skin, and his hair was damp. Harry was having a restless night. As he shifted once more, this time on to his back, Ron could see why.  
  
Ron sat down on the bed. He was suddenly afraid to touch Harry, wondering if he'd got this all wrong. After all, he wasn't the only Ron in the world. The story could have been written about anyone. Perhaps Harry would be horrified when he woke to discover his best friend sitting naked on his bed.  
  
Before he could make up his mind, Harry's eyes fluttered open. He tensed.  
  
"Harry, I --" Ron ground to a halt as Harry smiled, an expression of unabashed delight.  
  
"It's really you," he said. "I thought I was still dreaming."  
  
Ron swallowed. His skin felt too tight and weightless at the same time.  
  
Still smiling, his drowsy face full of unqualified bliss, Harry hooked a finger around Ron's necklace and pulled him down for a kiss.   
  
It was a sleepy kiss, a long kiss, during which Harry's hands roamed Ron's skin and he showed his approval of it by little humming moans.  
  
Ron, pressed down by Harry's agile limbs and the fatal attraction of his slippery tongue, could do nothing but hold Harry close and proceed to disgrace himself in the shortest time since puberty.  
  
When Ron had recovered, hampered by Harry's nuzzling into his neck and fascination with his nipples, he treated Harry to a sample of what he'd learned in the past few years. It was a very brief taster, because the merest touch made Harry shudder uncontrollably.  
  
Long past the time when, with anyone else, Ron would be pulling on cold and sticky trousers, he held Harry and kissed his face. Harry lay quiet and content in the circle of Ron's arms, his messy fringe tickling Ron's chin.  
  
Ron wanted to crush Harry to his chest, as tight as it was possible for two humans to be, but he was afraid that Harry would think he wanted to resume the pleasurable activities of the last hour. Which he did, but not just yet. He had something to say first.  
  
"Harry," he said, in between pressing kisses into the soft wilderness of Harry's hair, "I do."  
  
  


**i + b**

  
  
  
Many years later, Ron grudgingly admitted to Fred that, in fact, Harry had seduced _him_.  
  
  
  
 **The End**  
  
  
  
 _And now you say it's easy, that you've been falling for all of my charm  
And getting lost in my smile  
Never ceases to amaze me, when I'm chancing my arm  
That I still do it in style  
And now I hope you'll be with me tomorrow_  
  
('Stoppin' The Love,' KT Tunstall)


End file.
